


Mosaic

by proprioception (sacrificethemtothesquid)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:01:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrificethemtothesquid/pseuds/proprioception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition was created to piece together something broken; that it mends more than the hole in the sky is simply incidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mosaic

**Author's Note:**

> This is a character study of my human rogue Inquisitor. It probably will not be in chronological order, but I'll try to keep from skipping around too randomly.

The Mark is terrifying. 

Her first memories post-Conclave are of hazy pain, of her skin burning without flame, without cease. The angry Seeker with the blunt Nevarran accent dragged her bodily up the mountain, and then green fire erupted from her palm, a violent wash of energy that felt as though her innards were being roughly drawn out through a gaping hole in her hand. In the days after, the pain ebbs slowly to a dim echo, the lingering thunder of a distant waterfall. 

As the pain fades, reality and panic set in. At first, she’s afraid to touch the Mark, or to have it touch anything, lest the injury reappear to incapacitate her. The first few nights at Haven, she barely sleeps, waking with a start when the blankets brush her fingers. She takes to wearing gloves at all times, but the acid glow seeps through. The Mark - and she thinks of it with a capital letter, a title - is an unknown quantity. She’s a soldier, trained first to the blade and then to the bow, and she understands all too well the consequences of an empty scabbard or quiver. Does the Mark have a finite number of uses? Is it like a sword, requiring careful honing lest it lose its edge?

“We don’t know until we know,” the elf called Solas says, unhelpful if not unkind. Evelyn doesn’t trust him; he’s too sure of himself, too comfortable with the green lightning that is suddenly lurking in her palm. She’s not a mage. She’s accepted she’ll never be a Templar, but she’s been told since birth that demons and the mages they possess are the ultimate threat. Solas works in shades of gray, in her world of strict black and white, and that makes her deeply wary.

She’s spent her whole life trying to fit into the rigidly-defined role her family set for her, and continually failing. Becoming gray is a frightening prospect. She doesn’t know what it means to bear the Mark, and she’s so afraid she doesn’t write her family to tell them she’s alive. Her uncle - the beloved second son - is dead, along with her cousin the heir and everyone else in the Trevelyan delegation. The Seeker already thinks she killed everyone at the Conclave; Evelyn can only imagine the storm of blame ready to be heaped upon her by her family. 

In the end, she dashes off a quick missive - am alive and searching for those who murdered Uncle Arton. will not rest until the killer is found - and sends it with the fastest bird she can buy. She doesn’t mention the Mark, even though it snaps and crackles as the bird takes flight. Her father will hear of it soon enough, and in the meantime, the giant hole in the sky remains the worst of her problems.


End file.
